


Billy Knows It All

by cactusnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 14:32:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15820839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusnell/pseuds/cactusnell
Summary: After the infamous "I love you" phone call, Sherlock and Molly must face some hard truths. But who do they confide in? Billy the skull may be a bit worse for wear after the explosion, but he still plays a major role in the life of the world's only consulting detective.





	Billy Knows It All

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a tweet the other day that intrigued me. @yellowbelle stated that it was her head canon that Billy the skull had been Molly's first gift to the man who owned her heart. I took hold of the notion, and ran with it. Billy may be without eyes to see, ears to hear, a brain to process, or a heart to feel, but he certainly comes in handy when others can't seem to get theirs to work properly.

It had definitely been a bad week for consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, starting when his flat had been blown up. By a psychotic, long-forgotten sister, no less. Then said sister had proceeded, in deadly detail, to demonstrate exactly why his young and impressionable mind had chosen to wipe her from his existence. She had subjected him and John and Mycroft to a series of tests, each of which had an unpleasant outcome. In the end, it had become apparent that he was her primary test subject. It almost seemed as if she were trying to revive that young Will (his real first name) who she had so enjoyed torturing in her youth. The stoic, calm, and unemotional Sherlock of recent years was not to her liking, it would seem. And, despite how it seemed to the outside world, inside, Sherlock/Will knew that she had succeeded to a large extent.

Of course, there was no dramatic change to the facade. He could still manage a disinterested look or a cold stare with the best of them. He had not developed an easy charm. And nobody would be overcome by his sudden warmth. But certain people would be able to tell, he was sure. Mycroft kept giving him concerned glances, and Mummy, when he had finally seen her, patted his cheek a bit more than usual. Papa just looked at him with concern, a film of unshed tears covering his eyes. But he really hadn’t had the courage to face his most discerning critic. Not yet. Oh, he had spoken to her on his mobile any number of times, despite his dislike of phone conversations, and his preference for texting. He had explained the circumstances of that phone call from Sherringford, as had Mycroft, and, no doubt, John as well. She, of course, had understood. She always understood, and she always would, he knew. Before he could even muster an explanation, or a confession, she had fabricated one for him. She understood that he loved her as a friend. She was so sorry that she had forced him to imply otherwise. Her own feelings should be of no concern to him. She wanted to remain in his life in whatever capacity he desired. She hoped that they could still be friends. Friends, friends, friends! Every sentence she spoke seemed to contain that word, while his own mind, and heart, was murmuring something else. But, if “friends” was what she wanted, “friends” they would be. So, he had been avoiding her until he was at least semi-confident that he could carry off the whole “just friends” attitude. He couldn’t risk losing her, after all that had happened. He had to salvage whatever he could out of their relationship, allow his true feelings to make a strategic retreat in order to fight for her another day. But today was not that say, he thought sadly as he walked slowly toward St. Bart’s.

This was not the usual route he was accustomed to taking. He often made his way from Baker Street to the hospital where Molly worked, and quite often from Molly’s flat, his favorite bolthole. But the journey from Mycroft’s home to the place was unfamiliar to him. He had been staying with his brother for the past week, ever since returning from Sherringford. Baker Street was currently uninhabitable, and Mrs. Hudson had taken up residence in John’s guest room, which was convenient for John as it provided him with a live-in housekeeper and nanny. Under any other circumstances, Sherlock would have imposed on his pathologist for accommodations, but this was not the best of circumstances. So he had decamped to Mycroft’s more commodious residence.

The morning after the events at Sherringford, Baker Street had not yet been vetted as safe to enter, due to a concern about possible structural damage. Sherlock knew that such damage would be confined to the sitting room, where the bomb had gone off, but the whole building had been declared off limits. Never one to acknowledge limits, Sherlock had immediately taken himself off to his flat. In search of a few necessary items to transfer to his brother’s home for the duration. He considered that he was not being foolhardy, as almost everything he required would be in his relatively unscathed bedroom. His favorite books, his laptop, and, of course, some clothing. Just because his life had been turned upside down was no reason to appear disheveled. So, under cover of night, torch in hand, he climbed the fire escape at the back of the building and let himself in through his bedroom window. He quickly found a small suitcase he kept in his closet. And deposited his laptop, a book or two, two designer suits, undergarments, socks, a pair of shoes, and a half dozen shirts, three of which happened to be aubergine, Molly’s favorite. The, he opened the bedroom door and proceeded more cautiously down the hallway past the bathroom and toward the demolished sitting room. He knew that this was not a good idea, and his nerves were slightly on edge. Even the familiar creaks in the old floorboards caused alarm bells to go off in his mind. But everything seemed sturdy enough, and there was something in the other room he simply had to retrieve.

As he passed through the kitchen, the damage became more and more apparent. Mrs. Hudson had often declared that his kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off in it, but this was the real thing. The shock wave from the blast had shattered the cabinet doors, and things were strewn about the room in a far more haphazard manner than even Mrs. Hudson could imagine. The carnage only got worse as he glanced into the sitting room. A thin coating of plaster dust seemed to cover everything, and things had been tossed about seemingly at random, bouncing off walls until they arrived at their final destination. The yellow painted smiley face still grinned at him from the damask wallpaper. His eyes searched the mantle above the fireplace for the object of his search, but couldn’t locate it. He then shone the beam carefully around the devastation until it finally lit on a small lightish object lying amidst a pile of rubble which he presumed had been his desk. He would have to be very careful in his approach, as he did not wish to break a leg, or anything worse, as he plummeted through an unsafe floor. He reached the object with as few steps as possible, quickly scooped it up and retraced his steps even more carefully, as the item he carried in his hand added even more urgency to his retreat. When he finally returned to his bedroom he muttered, “There you go, Billy,” as he shoved the old skull into the suitcase, and beat a hasty retreat down the fire escape. Mycroft would be livid when he found out about the expedition, but, then again, Mycroft was often livid, and it hadn’t killed him yet.

As predicted, his brother was, indeed, upset with him. “Sherlock, for God’s sake, you survive our murderously psychotic sister only to risk your life in a damaged building. Whatever were you thinking…”

“I have a certain image to maintain, brother. Who would I be without my designer suits and tailored shirts? My public expects…”

“The public expects to see you in that impossibly ostentatious Belstaff coat, accompanied by that silly ear hat, Sherlock. You were already wearing the Belstaff. Don’t tell me you returned to the scene to retrieve that ridiculous hat.”

“The hat. No. No hat. I forgot the bloody hat. Not a problem. I can always get another one.”

“So you went there simply to retrieve some clothing. Fine. At least you didn’t have to go into the damaged areas. Just the bedroom…”

“I am touched by your concern, brother…”

“I simply would not look forward to telling Mummy and Papa that, surprise, their misbegotten daughter is alive, but their idiot middle child plunged to his death through a hole in his sitting room. Put there, in fact, by their aforementioned daughter.”

“Yes, well. When are we due to explain everything to our parents, then? The sooner the better, I suppose, although I’m not looking forward to it in the least…”

“Sherlock, there is no need for you to subject yourself to their anger. I alone bear the responsibility for my actions. Well. Uncle Rudy, too, I suppose,” Mycroft spoke of his long deceased mentor, “But he is currently beyond the range of Mummy’s rage.”

“I wouldn’t count on that, brother. Mummy always had friends in high places. Or low places, given some of Uncle Rudy’s foibles.” Sherlock flashed his brother a half smile to accompany his small attempt at humor. “In any case, I will not leave you to face them alone. Most of what you did was on my account, was it not? Always the overprotective elder brother. Allow me to be the same for once.”

“If you insist…”

“I do!”

“In that case, we leave at noon. Gird yourself, Sherlock. It will not be easy.”

But the meeting proved not as difficult as imagined. Perhaps it was the shock, but shouting was kept to a minimum. Mummy wept, Papa shed some silent tears. They insisted, rather forcefully, that they must see their newly resurrected child as soon as possible, and Mycroft agreed with some hesitation. The tension did not fully resolve until Violet Holmes wrapped her arms around her elder boy and tearfully whispered, “I should have listened to you all those years ago, Myke. You saw what she was, You tried to warn us. You did everything you could do to protect your brother. Things that we should have done. I’m so sorry for putting that burden on you. I’m really so proud of you. When his father joined in the hug, Mycroft shed his first tears in decades.

And so a week had passed. Each day got a little better. Mycroft had made arrangements to re-secure his sister. Euros had remained uncommunicative, except through the occasional musical foray with her brother. It seemed to be something like dueling violins. Nolly had been informed of the full circumstances involved their visit to Sherrinford, and Sherlock had taken up temporary residence at his brother’s home. Mycroft had insisted he see a therapist, and, to both their surprise, Sherlock had agreed. Not that he felt the real need for one, but more to placate his brother, who had been through more than enough, it would seem. Mycroft thought that his brother needed someone to talk to about things. Sherlock had originally insisted that this was not necessary, as he could find help in his mind palace. But Mycroft would not countenance a refusal.

“I am familiar with the concept of your mind palace, Sherlock. It was I who suggested you construct one. I didn’t call it a ‘palace’, however. That was your own sense of self-importance.”

“ ‘Palace’ sounds ever more inviting that ‘warehouse’, or even ‘library’, don’t you think? And ‘castle’ sounded much too medieval. ‘Palace’ works just fine, brother.”

“Be that as it may, your construct is for the storage and retrieval of facts, Sherlock. It does not process sentiment, emotions, feelings. And there are the things which lead to your memory loss to begin with. Surely, to treat the condition, will require you to access such things.”

Surprisingly, Sherlock Holmes gave in. Too easily. “Perhaps you’re right. I don’t suppose therapy could hurt. How much more damaged could I possibly be, after all?”

“I’ll make all the arrangements. You can start immediately, and I will have the therapist come to the house to make it even more convenient.” He them smiled a small smile at his younger brother, barely resisting the urge to ruffle his curls as he had done all those years ago. “I know you’re doing this more for me than for yourself, Sherlock. And I thank you for that.” 

“You’re quite welcome, Mycroft. It’s the least I owe you.” And with that the detective went upstairs to his borrowed room to process all that had happened.

True to his word, Mycroft had chosen an extremely competent therapist for his younger brother. But even so, he was surprised by how easily Sherlock had fallen into the habit of non-confrontational conversation with the man. Perhaps too easily, he thought, almost as if nothing of substance was being discussed. And this was certainly true, as Mycroft found out just a few days later, when he overheard an emotional conversation coming from his brother’s bedroom late at night. Once he heard the name “Billy” mentioned, he know that his careless brother had once again risked life and limb to perform an utterly useless task. He had evidently ventured into the crumbling sitting room of his flat to retrieve his most trusted confident. But, instead of being angry, Mycroft was almost relieved. Relieved that his little brother had a friend in whom to confide, to share his thoughts, and daresay, his newly rediscovered emotions, Mycroft Holmes sighed a bit in relief and headed off to bed. He knew, however, that these thoughts would be more properly shared with the object of most of his emotional turmoil, one Dr. Molly Hooper, who had gifted him the skull years before, at the beginning of their acquaintance. After all, he had been there for the life-altering phone call, he had watched his brother’s face, and heard his voice. He had heard and seen everything. If only Molly had been there, she surely would have seen it too, instead of letting him so easily off the proverbial hook with explanations of a platonic, friendly kind of love. After all, friendship didn’t cause you to rip coffins apart with your bare hands, did it?

So now it was exactly one week after the Sherrinford affair, and the consulting detective was undertaking his first case for Scotland Yard since the incident. A body had been delivered to Bart’s the day before, and he had to pick up a copy of Molly’s post mortem before meeting Lestrade at the scene of the crime. The case didn’t appear to be overly complicated, he would probably have it wrapped up by tonight. But he was eager to get back in the game, so he found himself on his way to the hospital, both looking forward to seeing Molly again, and dreading it.

As Sherlock approached the pathologist’s office adjoining the pathology lab, he heard what seemed to be a one-sided conversation. So, even though the door was slightly ajar, he knocked gently before entering, not wanting to interrupt. But he need not have been concerned, for Molly was alone at her desk, although she was looking a bit embarrassed to be found out. He soon found out why as his glance moved to a human skull sitting on her desk just to the right of her laptop. A skull with a large plaster over its left eye socket.

“What are you doing with Billy, Molly? I hope you haven’t decided to reclaim him after all these years.”

“How did you recognize him, Sherlock?”

“That’s not a face one easily forgets, Molly…”

“Technically speaking, that’s not a face at all, Sherlock!”

“And he suffered an injury in the explosion. A small puncture, with a slight radiating fracture above the left eye. I would have provided treatment had I thought his life was in danger, but, well, it’s a bit late for that concern, isn’t it? Sherlock made a small sound in his throat to dismiss the idea. “But, you haven’t answered my question. Do you intend to reclaim him?”

“Not at all, you idiot. Mycroft dropped him off just a short time ago. It seems his housekeeper discovered him in your room, and is now convinced that you are a practitioner of the dark arts.”

“Really? The dark arts? Are we talking voodoo or santeria? Or perhaps Satanism? I would perhaps be less offended by being called a wizard - or even a sorcerer. Yes, I think I prefer sorcerer…”

“Sherlock, this is serious. The poor woman was terrified. She insisted your brother get rid of Billy, or she would be forced to leave. And you know how Mycroft adores her chocolate cakes…”

“We all adore her cakes, Molly. Except Billy, or course, Having no taste buds, he had no opinion on the matter.” Sherlock made a small attempt at humor. “But how would he know to return Billy to you? I never told him how I acquired him.”

“I told him, Sherlock. While you were away for those two years. He caught me once, at your flat, talking to the silly skull. I always thought there was something a bit unbalanced about your conversations with him, but I did find it comforting to bare my soul, even if to only a formerly animate object.” Molly smiled a bit, still a little embarrassed to have been caught. “Mycroft suggested that Billy seemed to be an excellent listener. He suggested that I should attempt to master the skill. He specifically said I should listen more with my heart, rather than just my ears. And perhaps I shouldn’t discount what I hear simply because it is exactly what I want to hear. I have been discussing the matter with Billy, and he seems to agree with your brother.”

“Traitor!” Sherlock dismissed the comment with a small sneer.

“Sherlock, if I were to ask you a question, do you promise to tell me the truth?”

“Of course. Don’t I always?”

“How would I know. You lie so well, so…”

“I promise, Molly. Please ask away.” His voice may have sounded calm, but he was anything but.

“Remember, Billy, here, is a witness. He’ll know if you’re being honest.” When Sherlock nodded his agreement, Molly sat up in her chair, steeling for an answer that could possibly change her life. “Sherlock, do you love me?”

“I thought we covered that question. You said yourself that we are friends, and, surely, friendship is a kind of love…”

“Sherlock, don’t pretend to not understand me. I will rephrase the question to be more specific. Sherlock, are you in love with me?”

Seconds dragged on as the two looked at each other across her desk, with Billy perched between them. Molly’s hopes had almost faded when the detective spoke, slowly and deliberately. “Of course I am, Molly. I told you so. It was you who didn’t believe me.” He picked up the skull, carefully fingering the plaster over its eye. “I’ve certainly discussed the matter with Billy often enough. I see you’ve treated his injury. Do you think he’ll recover?”

“He does have a small skull fracture, but it’s hardly likely he suffered any brain damage, given the absence of a brain, Sherlock. I expect he’ll be good as new once the clay plug I inserted hardens.” Molly laughed her answer.

“Do you think we’ll recover, as well, Dr. Hooper?”

“Of course we will, as soon as you start talking to me instead of to a dead man. And as soon as I start listening with my heart as well as my ears.”

What could have been a tender moment was unfortunately interrupted by the text message signal on Sherlock’s mobile. Lestrade was waiting impatiently for his arrival at their crime scene. “I have to go, Molly. Duty calls…

 

“Go on, then. Go be brilliant. I’ll bring Billy home with me tonight. Will you be coming home, too, Sherlock?”

Home, he thought. He liked the sound of that. “I may be late, depending on developments. Don’t wait up for me, I’ll join you in bed whenever I get there. And I still have to get my things from Mycroft’s place…”

“Don’t bother, Sherlock. Clothing is optional,” Molly winked wickedly. And, if Billy had had lips, he would have been smiling.


End file.
